


Secret secrets are no fun

by perilouslips



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: California, Cock Worship, Deepthroating, Explicit Language, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Iwaizumi Hajime has a Big Dick, M/M, Mild Gagging, Mouth-Fucking, Oikawa Tooru is a Little Shit, Oikawa Tooru takes a trip to sub space, Old Friends, Oral Sex, Piercings, Post Time-Skip, Sexual Tension, naughty foot stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilouslips/pseuds/perilouslips
Summary: [though all things being equal, this secret hurt Iwaizumisignificantlymore than it could ever hurt Oikawa.]Tooru takes an impromptu trip to California.A pint of jet lag and a few dashes of liquid courage make for a heady mix.Also, Iwaizumi has some hidden spice up his sleeve.Spontaneity has never tasted so good.written for Iwaizumi Thirst Week 2020
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 46
Kudos: 280
Collections: iwaoi lol screaming





	Secret secrets are no fun

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone cares, this is loosely set in 2017 (I’m presuming Iwa’s internship extended past his senior year/happened after he graduated)

Technically, Iwaizumi and Oikawa parted ways on the promise of becoming the best in their respective fields, all for an eventual momentous reunion at the Olympics.

 _…and we won’t see each other until then_ was heavily implied.

But neither of them expressly said as much.

And considering they still text regularly and call and send plenty of obnoxious selfies—mostly Tooru, but whatever—it basically counts as “seeing each other” anyway, so _technically_ , a spontaneous visit fits well within the bounds of the sizable loophole in their verbal pact.

Tooru generally thinks loopholes are for losers, but this one doesn’t chafe him quite as much.

There’s rarely time for much of a vacation in pro sports, but the Argentine ethos of enjoying life runs deep, so Tooru had found himself staring down the barrel of yet another two-week enforced vacation in the chilly month of July. He didn’t feel like blowing money on attempting to conquer skiing down in Bariloche with a bunch of the other Club Atlético guys—as long as they were including some level of physical training in their time off (and not injuring themselves), their coach didn’t particularly care what they did—so he’d initially planned to book a flight to Rio to pound some sand with Shouyou again.

But on a whim, he’d booked a ticket for California instead.

Iwaizumi was still deep in his internship, so he had no reason to be anywhere other than where Tooru was expecting him to be. Tooru dropped a text the day before his flight—when it’d be late in California, but early enough for Iwaizumi to likely still be awake—then sat back to wait for the fireworks.

And as expected, Iwaizumi immediately called to yell at him, half in frustration (because _how fucking rude, Assikawa, jesus_ ), half in carefully-metered excitement; he’d bitched him out for the inconvenience, and agreed to pick him up at the airport in the next breath.

So Tooru had hopped on a few planes, charmed some flight attendants, and too many hours later has found himself standing outside Irvine’s John Wayne Airport (truly), chewing his lip and staring down at his phone, officially free of Argentina’s winter drear and lightly sweating already—but it’s hard to pin that completely on the California sunshine. The nerves prickling at the base of his spine might also be a factor.

But he and Iwaizumi have been in frequent contact since they both left Japan, and are childhood friends besides, so this sudden tension makes zero sense. Tooru pins it on the jet lag, a very plausible excuse for weirdness; he’s five hours behind and fully seasonally flipped—the human brain can only take so much.

IWA-CHAN flashes across his phone screen, complete with the smattering of obnoxious emojis Tooru has chosen for him: a strong arm, heart eyes, and the goofy drooling face—a combo designed for maximum annoyance if Iwa catches a glimpse—and Tooru’s head snaps up, scanning the line of cars as he answers the call.

Iwaizumi’s deep voice slides into his ear. “Hey, I’m in a burgundy Toyota. Do you see me?”

Arrivals traffic isn’t too bad right now, so Tooru is quick to pick out the burgundy sedan with a vaguely Iwa-shaped figure in it. He waves his phone hand and yanks his backpack onto his shoulder for the short walk to the curb, then pulls the back door open, throwing a, “Took you long enough” and a glare between the seats while he shoves his bags in.

Iwaizumi grins back at him over his shoulder, unapologetic. “Well, I had to borrow an associate’s car for an extremely-last-minute drop-in guest, so.”

Tooru slides into the passenger seat and not-so-subtly checks Iwaizumi out as he gets belted in. California looks good on him; he’s definitely more tanned than the last time Tooru saw him—one of Iwa’s less-frequent selfies from months ago, he mostly sends pictures of random dogs—which only enhances his dark features and overall handsomeness.

Tooru would never admit it to Iwa’s face, but he’s almost as much of a looker as Tooru is. Not that he’s ever clued into that himself, because it’s not Iwaizumi’s style to be too hung up on looks—all part of his inherent coolness (the bastard). But it’s one of few things Tooru’s never felt a need to compete with him about.

Tooru’s eyes continue their assessment, skimming over Iwaizumi’s torso—clothed in a sleeveless tee, ‘sun’s out, guns out’ in full effect, tan emphasizing the thicker tone of his biceps—then down to his nicely-fitted jeans, which are plain blue, not a lick of distress on them. This feels antithetical to what Tooru knows of Cali-style, but then again, Iwaizumi was always more of a function over fashion kind of guy. Besides, there’s something to be said about elevating plain denim by molding it around strong muscles; Tooru’s gaze lingers along Iwa’s thighs in consideration.

If Iwaizumi notices Tooru’s staring, he doesn’t react to it, just pulls out into the arrivals thru lane and says, “So, are you hungry? Or would you rather go crash for a bit and eat later? I’ve got the rest of the day free, so we can do whatever.”

Tooru presses his lips together, consideration taking a hasty U-turn as he turns to stare out the window at Irvine unfolding around them. “I’m pretty wired, actually. Could definitely eat, but a shower beforehand would be nice.”

“Roger that,” Iwaizumi says. He turns the radio up a little, adding a muted rock soundtrack to Tooru’s first peek at the city Iwa’s been thriving in.

Tooru glances at him slyly. “What, no ‘Trashykawa’ comment? You're going soft! I set you up perfectly for a line about how much I stink.”

“Obviously your personality’s still garbage, but you just got here—I’m trying to be nice,” Iwaizumi says with a small grin and a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ll push you into a trashcan later, if it makes you feel better.”

Tooru chatters about his flights on the way to Iwaizumi’s place, which is revealed to be a simple studio apartment and exactly what Tooru was expecting: a number of degrees disorganized—bed rumpled, but for all intents and purposes ‘made’; books stacked on many surfaces, radiating outward from the tiny stuffed bookcase; a small desk barely containing the sundry papers covering it, with a few escapees draped over the arm of the neighboring love seat—but bright and otherwise clean. It’s plain in one sense, but completely charming on the whole, much like Iwaizumi himself.

Naturally, Tooru tells Iwaizumi exactly this. Then he goes on to insult the place thoroughly enough that Iwaizumi beans him in the face with the towel he was about to hand him before shoving him and all his laughter into the tiny bathroom.

It’s business as usual for them, and it feels fantastic. Tooru hasn’t been willing to acknowledge the full extent of how much he’s missed Iwa over the last few years—can’t be sad if you ignore the sad thing, duh—but now they have two glorious weeks to rag on each other to their hearts’ content. Running wild in Rio with Shouyou would have been excellent fun, of course, but Iwaizumi’s roots are tens of years deep in Tooru’s heart; much as the sparse watering of texts and calls keeps them alive, the yearning for a thorough soak has persisted unsatisfied for too long.

After he’s washed off the long-haul flight, Tooru informs Iwaizumi that he’s starving for a traditional California meal. Iwaizumi stares at him for a minute, clearly blank as to what the hell that would entail, until a lightbulb clicks somewhere in his brain. “Fish tacos and margaritas.”

Tooru only has the vaguest conception of ‘tacos'—he knows that they’re unrelated to octopus _tako,_ though, if they have fish in them, maybe octopus is involved after all?—but he knows what ‘margarita’ means because that’s something Argentina has too, so he says, “Sounds great.”

Iwaizumi can still read Tooru’s expressions perfectly, and he grins. “Like you even know what I’m talking about.”

Tooru sneers at him. “Well, obviously I trust you, dickface.”

Iwaizumi grins wider. “Good.”

A thirty-five minute drive later, they pull up outside a boardwalk restaurant with a patio bar facing the ocean. Tooru knew the ocean was near, but is pleasantly surprised that he gets to see it so soon. They’re late for lunch and early for dinner, so they have their pick of the open tables on the patio, afternoon heat reliably offset by patio fans and ocean breeze. Tooru trails behind Iwaizumi, who strolls over to a two-top in the far corner, somewhat removed from the other occupied tables. The fence surrounding the patio area is low enough to present them with a perfect slice of beachfront to gaze at; they angle their chairs so it’s equally easy to take in the view and converse without anybody cricking their neck.

Iwaizumi starts their tab and orders for both of them. Tooru’s surprise escalates further when the margaritas turn out not to be pizzas, but drinks— _big_ drinks—in upside-down-umbrella-shaped glasses, pale green with limes hugging their crusty rims.

“What’s in it?” He sniffs at his, getting an overall sweetish-sour bouquet.

“Tequila, triple sec, and lime,” Iwa informs him, “but they’ve got other kinds, if you don’t like that one. That’s salt on the rim.”

Tooru’s reluctant to look like a total tourist, so he asks, “What are you supposed to do with the salt?”

“You lick it. Before or after, doesn’t matter. Some people prefer it without, but it’s all up to your taste buds.” Iwaizumi forgoes his straw entirely and gives a very attractive demonstration, sliding his tongue up through the line of salt on his glass before he slots his mouth over the bared rim to drink.

Somewhat thirstier now, Tooru copies him. The salt washes together with citrusy sweetness in his mouth, underlaid with a pungent twang that must be the tequila. It’s intensely refreshing after a long-ass flight, and Tooru clinks his glass against Iwa’s in approval before downing another gulp. He doesn’t drink too much on the regular, but what the hell, it’s vacation.

His first margarita slips down like a dream, cool in his mouth and throat even as it sneaks tendrils of warmth into his limbs; Tooru’s never had tequila before, but so far, he’s a big fan. He and Iwaizumi chow down on fish tacos—which turn out to be lightly-battered cod on dressed cabbage slaw, sans octopus in the end—and catch up on all the finer details of each others’ lives. Time and distance are wily things; despite the frequency of their shit-texting and shit-talking, it’s been months since they’ve had a real conversation. This is quickly remedied, as such lapses often are between people who’ve known each other for a long time.

Tooru gives Iwa all the deets about getting established on his team, and Iwa explains the particulars of his internship in greater detail, because despite hearing the whole episode of Iwaizumi running into Ushiwaka a few phone calls ago, Tooru had forgotten the part about Ushiwaka’s dad being the guy Iwaizumi actually wanted to intern with. This carries them through a second margarita, at which point they allow a breather for another round of tacos, both sitting back to take in the fresh breeze blowing off the waves as they munch. The sun’s going down, spilling neon over whatever it can reach, and the boardwalk collectively responds in kind with all manner of lights and illuminated signage, music pumping a little louder all down the way to herald the incoming night.

And maybe it’s the jet lag, or maybe he’s just a tequila featherweight, but Tooru’s feeling a little giddy. Maybe it’s purely excitement from seeing Iwa in real life again. He swallows his last bite of taco and glances across the table at him. “I think being an athletic trainer really suits you.”

“Yeah. It’s a lot of work, but it doesn’t feel like it, you know?” Iwaizumi muses. He licks sauce off his finger and grabs his drink. “If you do what you love, you never work a day in your life.”

“Wait’ll I bust you in the group chat,” Tooru slings a sideways grin at him. “I’m gonna tell everyone Iwa-chan’s gone softer than a pile of kittens.”

“In some ways, sure.” Iwaizumi’s brows crumple together, and he gives Tooru his favorite grimace. “We can’t all stay the same, Shittykawa.”

“I’ve changed too!” Tooru snaps. “I’m learning Spanish, you know.” He slurps down the last of his marg as annoyingly as possible.

Iwaizumi eyes him. “Oh yeah? Let’s hear it then.”

 _“¡Che, boludo!”_ Tooru gestures at him like he sees his teammates do, fingertips of one hand all touching as he flicks the hand back and forth in Iwaizumi’s face, “ _dale_ , _que hacés,_ _corré tras la pelota y dejá de joder porfa.”_

“And?” Iwaizumi asks.

“And what,” Tooru says.

“And what’s it mean?” Iwaizumi asks, grin crawling across his face.

Tooru gamely holds his stare, but Iwa’s a staring contest champ, so he lets his eyes drop and admits grudgingly, “I’m not completely sure, the guys mostly talk to me in English. I’d ask my coach, but I think half of it’s swearing and I don’t want to be rude.”

Iwaizumi hits him with a strong cocked brow, grin spreading wider. “And you say _I’ve_ gone soft.”

“Oy, oy, I started over in a new country with a totally new language barrier built in,” Tooru growls at him, anteing back into the staring contest with a fresh glare, “so I kindly invite you to shut the fuck up.”

“You get the next round, and I’ll think about it real hard,” Iwaizumi says, downing the remnants of his drink.

Tooru peers at the little sandwich-board drink menu propped in the middle of the table. “Whoa, there’s one with sangria in it? And it’s _frozen_ , ooh, I want to try one of those.”

“Good call,” Iwaizumi says. He flags down a waitress, who makes eyes at the both of them as she jots their order on her pad.

Iwaizumi remains oblivious, but Tooru makes sure to give her a little wink before she walks away, then lounges back in his chair with a sigh. “Margaritas are new to me, but a good sangria makes for a perfect summer afternoon, you know? Fruit smoothing out wine’s sharper edges, working together to smooth a body’s rough edges out from the inside...”

“It is almost fully dark,” Iwa informs him, like Tooru's missed the darkening sky in very clear view above and beyond their patio table.

“I was waxing lyrical, you dick,” Tooru snaps.

Iwaizumi laughs, and it’s business as usual—and _gods_ how Tooru’s _missed that fuckin' business_ —but he has to preserve the bit, so he _hmphs_ his face away in mock offense because his huge smile would totally ruin it.

As he pretends to pout, he spots a tattoo parlor across the way, front windows lit up carnival-garish. It makes sense for places located right on this beachfront drag to really pump up the window flash, but Tooru doesn’t know what kind of crowd the place is trying to attract. He certainly doesn’t feel incentivized to go under the needle looking at it—but then again he’s never had the urge for ink, and to each their own, as they say. The place must do pretty good business if the owners can afford the rent in this area.

He turns back just as the waitress arrives with their drinks—big frosty mugs filled to the brim with pale margarita slush, swirled through with a broad vein of sangria purple—low-key checking out Iwa’s impressive guns again as she places his in front of him. Tooru flashes her a brilliant smile when she deposits his. It turns her a lovely shade of pink, and is somehow the only part of the exchange Iwaizumi notices.

He waits for her to leave before he says, “Just flew in and already trawling,” shaking his head slowly, eyes level on Tooru’s as he blends the colors in his mug with jabs of his straw.

“It’s called courtesy, you should try it sometime,” Tooru sneers. He stirs his drink up too, lets his face relax into smugness. “Jealousy is ugly, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi gives him the cocked brow again, expression otherwise blank. “And what, exactly, am I supposed to be jealous of here?”

Tooru throws a jaunty shrug. “Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me.”

“Like I’m short of reasons,” Iwaizumi says blandly, and sucks up some slush.

“Want to get them tattooed on your ass in commemoration of this historic meeting?” Tooru hooks a thumb at the tattoo place.

Iwaizumi glances at the shop over his shoulder. “Not particularly.”

“Come on,” Tooru leans forward on his elbow, smug grin sharpening into a leer, “I dare you.”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “I can’t think of a single thing I’d want inked on me.”

“Not even my gorgeous face?” Tooru pouts outrageously, cueing up his best doe eyes.

Iwaizumi pins him with flat ones. “As compelling as the thought of sitting on that dumb mug every day for the rest of my life might be, I’m gonna go with no.”

Iwa’s opened himself up for an obvious face-sitting joke, but it’s low-hanging fruit and Tooru can do better than that. So he sips his swirl for a thoughtful moment, then pushes a different angle. “How ‘bout a piercing then? I’ll get one too, we can be piercing twins.”

Iwaizumi’s gazing oceanward again, and he says casually, “Pass. Got one a while back, but I’m pretty happy with just one.”

Tooru’s jaw drops, and the first thing he can think to say is, “You fucking liar,” because Iwaizumi’s ears and brows and lips and face in general are still intact and perfect—Tooru knows because he’s been observing Iwa closely whenever he thinks he can get away with it.

Iwaizumi’s eyes slide over and he gives Tooru a slow grin. “Not lying.”

“Stick your tongue out,” Tooru demands.

Iwaizumi flashes it at him—totally intact—and says, “Considered that one for a while, but thought the clacking against my teeth would drive me nuts.”

Iwaizumi’s had no reason to be shirtless so far today, so Tooru feels justified plunging an arm across the table and groping at his torso—running his palm over the swells of Iwa’s pecs and down into the the dip of his belly button, no dice in either spot—but Iwaizumi clearly expected this from him; he remains relaxed in his chair, straw between his lips and eyes steady on Tooru’s face as he feels up Iwa’s unfairly hard body (between the two of them, he’s always been able to put on thicker muscle, the _absolute_ bastard).

Tooru scowls at him and tweaks one of his nipples just to be an asshole before retreating to his side.

Pain etches a quick grimace onto Iwaizumi’s face. He growls, “You shithead, what the hell was that for?”

Tooru slurps his swirl with narrowed eyes. “Liar tax.”

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes more, lip curling slightly. “I’m not lying.”

Tooru scoffs at him. “I don’t buy it! What, did you get a fucking dermal somewhere like some kind of slutty alt boy?”

“Nope,” Iwaizumi says.

Tooru expects his face to darken fully into that old anger only he could provoke, but instead his forehead relaxes, settling the rest of Iwa’s face into a hard-to-read expression—a different familiar thing, because while Iwa could always read Tooru like his thoughts were written on his forehead, it’s never been a two-way street—that still drives Tooru up the fucking wall.

“Look, you can pull this inscrutable Buddha bullshit all you want, but I know you’re fucking with me and I’m not impressed,” Tooru says haughtily. He tries to mirror Iwaizumi’s casual posture, shaking his head in disbelief. “Your _oldest_ friend comes up to visit, flies _hours_ just to see your almost-as-handsome-as-his face and lavish you with his affection. And what do you do?” His tone skews disappointed, “You lie to make yourself look cool. Cali’s changed you, Iwa-chan.”

Iwa’s response is a dead-eyed stare and audible sucking noises through his straw—classic, but not quite the reaction Tooru was aiming for. He slumps in his chair, opting to sulk through the rest of his swirl, eyes skating over Iwaizumi’s body like his secret piercing will glow if Tooru’s gaze passes over its hiding spot—never having been particularly interested in body mod stuff himself, he’s not sure what he’s forgetting—

Until his brain screeches to a halt, gaze dropping stone-like to the crotch of Iwaizumi’s jeans.

The little mouth tweak he catches in his peripheral vision says a lot, but if this is for real, it’s something Tooru has to see with his own fucking eyes because _there’s no fucking way Iwaizumi Hajime went out and got himself a dick piercing_ , so he looks up and blurts, “Come to the bathroom with me right now.”

“Fuck no.” Iwaizumi holds his gaze, eyes laughing, corner of his mouth joining in with a slow knife-edge curve.

Tooru leans forward into the space between their chairs and hisses, “You’ve got metal in your meat and you expect me to just sit here quietly with that information rattling around my skull?” He sticks a finger in Iwaizumi’s face. “You can’t bait me like that, asshole. I’ve known you since before your balls dropped, and you dropped trou when _that_ happened without me even _asking_.”

Iwaizumi leans forward too, savagely-amused grin crawling further across his face as he murmurs, “I’m not showing you my cock piercing in a restaurant bathroom.”

The verbal confirmation makes Tooru scowl fiercely, but he forces himself to sit back in his chair, knowing full well that if he tries to grope Iwaizumi’s crotch right now, Iwa will make a point of never showing him. So he crosses his arms, crosses one leg over the other, and turns on the snark. “All the times I’ve seen your junk in the locker rooms and you won’t whip it out real quick just to give me some peace of mind? Cruel, Iwa.”

Iwaizumi just smiles.

Tooru decides to go ahead with the questions bubbling in his throat. “When did you get it done?”

Iwaizumi’s eyes flick up as he flips back through his mental calendar, “Six, seven months ago?”

Tooru bares his teeth, more rictus than smile. “And you didn’t think getting a _needle through your dick_ warranted a mention to your best friend?”

“Felt like more of an in-person kind of reveal.” Iwaizumi shrugs a shoulder, eyes bright as he watches Tooru try not to openly writhe with impatience.

Tooru reins his expression in tight to avoid giving him more satisfaction, gazing down his nose like a judge. “Oh, so it’s the _theatre_ of it that you really went for, I see. ‘Iwaizumi Hajime, such a responsible, upstanding young man, and just _wait_ till you get a load of his cock jewelry’.” He shakes his head in slow admonishment and drawls, “I’ll bet you just lap up the shocked faces you get every time you drop your pants with somebody new. For shame, Iwa-chan—I wouldn’t have expected that kind of tawdry behavior from Seijoh’s former ace.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions about something you haven’t even seen,” Iwaizumi says, straw going back into his mouth, still cucumber-cool.

Tooru scowls ferociously at him and chews on his own straw, mumbling peevishly around it. “Maybe just ‘cause it seems like something a person would tell their _lifelong_ _best friend_ about, but what do I know? I don’t have one of those—just a dude letting me crash on his couch who happens to have a bejeweled schlong.”

“You’ll probably be more comfortable on the floor. You saw how small my couch is,” Iwaizumi says conversationally, “and I wouldn’t really call a single titanium barbell ‘bejeweled’.”

“Well, I wouldn’t fucking know, now would I,” Tooru snarls at him.

Iwaizumi snorts a little, but doesn’t say anything for a few moments, letting Tooru stew a little and stab around in the half-mug of booze slush he’s got left. Then Iwa says quietly, “For what it’s worth, aside from my piercer, no one’s seen it but me.”

Tooru turns his nose up with a sneer. “Smells like bullshit, but again, it’s obviously not any of _my_ business.”

“Not bullshitting,” Iwaizumi murmurs. “You’ll be the first.”

Tooru slants his sulky eyes across the table, another snide retort ready to fly.

But Iwaizumi’s gaze is hot on his face, appraising in a sharp way Tooru’s never known how to interpret, and suddenly the pressure in the air is different. Tooru warms in a deeply visceral way tequila could only dream of effecting. He swallows on reflex and looks away, mumbling, “Oh. Well, good,” attempting to play it _super_ cool, even as he nearly misses his mouth with his straw when he goes to wet his drying throat.

Iwaizumi’s still scrutinizing him, so Tooru doubles down and scrabbles together a few smoking splinters of his usual boisterousness, clutching his petulant bearings like pearls as he grumbles, “ _Finally_ starting to see some dividends from those best friend privileges. It’s about damn time.”

“Uh-huh,” Iwaizumi says. His voice sounds unfairly husky, but it usually does, so it’s hard to tell if he’s purposefully layering on the rough or if Tooru’s starting to have mild auditory hallucinations—courtesy of an abrupt resurgence of the reluctantly-entertained Iwa-centric fantasies he’s been trying unsuccessfully to root out of his brain since his teens. The product of extremely rogue hormones, probably—or so he used to tell himself, whenever he felt the self-conscious need to address the disjoint in the way his brain kept choosing to see his best friend since childhood.

Of course, the gods-honest truth is that Tooru’s quote-unquote reluctance was always bullshit, because he used to entertain those fantasies _very_ thoroughly in private at least once daily. ‘Reluctant’ never even came close to applying. 

(It still doesn’t.)

So in the here and now, Tooru stares at the table, pretending his drink is newly fascinating in an attempt to avoid exposing his own closely-held secret here at this restaurant—because those tables just _love_ to fucking turn, and like, _“ha ha, gotcha, sucker”,_ fair enough—but as far as Tooru’s concerned, the irony can go fuck itself.

His carefully-reinstated façade provides the barest amount of cover from Iwaizumi’s perceptive gaze, which continues to analyze every crack and chip in the paint; he’s always been able to see straight through to the real man behind the curtain, which doesn’t seem to have changed a bit in the time they’ve been apart. But after 23 seconds (Tooru counted every one), the inspection lifts away, drifting to the horizon, perhaps to cool itself in the breeze coming off the night-cloaked ocean. It’s unclear whether Tooru’s been successful in hiding the wider scope of his dirty truth, or whether Iwaizumi’s just letting it slide; he’s come very close to sniffing out this secret before, but he's never held any of Tooru’s secrets against him previously, and there’s no real reason for him to start now.

Tooru peripherally watches Iwaizumi take a drink, posture unquestionably easy now, and takes a mildly jittery sip of his own. Together they take in what’s left of the view in mostly-comfortable silence, years of companionship blanketing the pressure in the air, settling it down to disperse over the weatherbeaten floorboards.

But now that the tension is gone, Tooru isn't sure he's happy about things returning to the friendly status quo.

This wasn’t exactly what he came here for (consciously), but this secret is inexorably tangled in his heart roots, by now many years deep in overgrowth; it’s unhealthy to let that kind of secret fester, pleading a little more loudly with every heartbeat passed in the presence of the one it revolves around (in this case, tallying up to many millions at least). It might just be time to prune some of the bullshit away, let new blooms breathe—even if it's just for a little while. 

A person can only go so long without telling their best friend in the whole wide world they’re in love with them. It’s a law of human nature, and an ordinance even the Great King can’t avoid, no matter how much he squirms.

Additionally, his technically having had a secret of his own for a number of years doesn’t change the fact that, for months now, Iwaizumi’s been sending memes, texting stony responses to truly excellent jokes, threatening him viciously whenever Tooru calls to whine… and _the whole time,_ he’s had a piece of metal clandestinely lodged in his intimates.

Maybe it isn’t as big a deal as Tooru’s making it in his head, but he’s feeling a little gaslit here, because unbeknownst to him, he’s been chilling on a patio with a slightly different version of Iwa-chan than he expected… and if he hadn’t teased him exactly the right way, he’d never have known, which is infuriating.

Also _incredibly_ fucking hot.

The curiosity is still fresh and thick on his tongue, so Tooru leans into it, canting his eyes over at the most casual angle of interest. “So, like... why the dick?”

Iwaizumi glances at him and shrugs. “Fell down a research rabbit-hole when I was working on a paper.” 

“The hell kind of paper were you writing, that you wound up at ‘dick piercings’?” Tooru demands.

Iwaizumi takes a little sip of slush and squares his body with the tabletop, leaning on his elbows and gazing into the dregs of his drink between them. “Oh, you know how the Internet works. You’re reading about one thing, and you see some random shit in the sidebar that piques your interest, so you click, and then there’s a new sidebar, so you click... and eventually, I clicked through to an article about genital piercing.” He shrugs again. “The thought stuck in my head, so I mulled it over for a while, and then decided to get one.”

“Okay, so were you drunk at the time?” Tooru asks.

Iwaizumi cracks a grin at him. “Only on lack of sleep.”

Tooru narrows his eyes again. “Sure, sleep deprivation totally explains you paying somebody to put a _needle_ through _your dick_.”

Iwaizumi shrugs again and stirs aimlessly in his mug. “I wanted to do something for myself.”

“Iwa-chan, get a fucking massage if you want a treat, don’t mutilate yourself,” Tooru says exasperatedly.

Iwaizumi’s eyes reignite as he fixes Tooru with a deadly stare. “First off, the piercing I got is a pleasure enhancer, so that’s a treat I can enjoy whenever I want. Secondly, it looks really good on me, so you can keep your mutilation comments in your mouth.”

Tooru rocks back a little like he’s been slapped. Iwaizumi’s voice matches the heat in his eyes—angry this time, but…

It feels good. It’s the kind of heat a man could lose days to, and come out the other side wrecked on a few different levels.

His curiosity is taking on a new shape, and Tooru swallows it down with the last gulp of his drink. Honestly, Iwaizumi’s always had a stud quality to him, and his finally starting to revel in it is hot beyond belief. It’s doing a whole helluva lot for Tooru down in the trouser department, that’s for goddamned sure.

He clears his throat, tries to downplay the pressing attraction swelling into the lining of his zipper, and mutters, “Guess I’ll have to see for myself, then, won’t I?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi mutters back, “you will.”

Conversation stops dead at this point. Tooru’s completely blanking on other topic paths to take, and Iwa doesn’t seem inclined to contribute any as he catches their waitress’s eye, signaling for their bill. When she brings it over, Iwaizumi gets to filling out the receipt while Tooru finds the slightest presence of mind to tell her everything was wonderful; his voice is a little weak, so he tries to make up for it with another blush-inducing smile, which lands successfully.

Iwaizumi waits for her to walk off before he growls, “Done flirting, Shittykawa?”

“Not on your life,” Tooru croaks.

Iwaizumi’s eyes sear him, but he gets up and walks to the car without another word. Tooru trails behind, wondering if tequila can be blamed in any way for the cumbia rhythm his pulse is beating to.

In the entirety of Tooru’s life, thirty-five minutes has never felt so goddamned long. Iwaizumi keeps his eyes glued to the road, occasionally fussing with the radio—not that the muted _whatever_ playing from it does anything to ease the tension filling the space around them again, so thick you could slice it, serve it up, put some whipped cream on it, a cherry—but _fuck_ , Tooru’s hungry.

And he knows exactly what for.

He just doesn’t know if he has the balls to ask for it.

But if he’s been reading the signs right, this tension has a delectable amount of potential drizzled over the top. Hard to say exactly how far that potential stretches, but Tooru’s about to find out.

He can barely wait till the car’s in park before his seatbelt is off and his fingers are tearing at the belt securing Iwaizumi’s jeans. Iwaizumi clamps a hand on his wrist and Tooru freezes, flatly refusing to look up because he won’t be able to take those eyes at this range, _not right now,_ because unless he’s very much mistaken, Iwa’s fucking hard already, stiffness filling out a fold of stiff fabric, and that makes the extent of potential between them a _lot_ clearer, and Tooru’s patience officially dried up _ten minutes ago_ , and—

Iwa’s voice is low and rough in his ear. “This is a borrowed car.”

“This piercing’s got a lot of requirements for revealing itself,” Tooru says hoarsely, heart now doing an exceedingly nasty tango. But he lets go and climbs robotically out of the vehicle, still unable to look Iwaizumi in the face as they walk side by side up the stairs to his apartment, awash in a flood of horny anxiety.

Iwaizumi’s eyes have always been stunningly honest—maybe as reciprocity for being able to see through any amount of Tooru’s bullshit—but this has never stopped Tooru from convincing himself he was imagining things, the many times he’d caught glimpses of something else riding shotgun in that open gaze over the years.

They’d been friends for so long, and Iwaizumi _knew_ him—the real him, more than anyone—but hadn’t ever seemed to particularly cherish that fact. Their interaction ratio included at least 70% personal insults, so the concept of Iwaizumi sharing Tooru’s gushier feelings simply didn’t add up. It’s said that boys go can overboard teasing girls they like, but Tooru figured it just didn’t work the same way between boys; never confirmed, but considering the many years of locker room joshin’ and myriad instances of volleyball-adjacent shit-talk, he should think he’d have gotten a confession or two at the very least, if there was any deeper undercurrent to such behavior.

In any case, it’s the first time in a long time that he’s genuinely unsure what he’ll see lurking the next time he faces the dark green of Iwaizumi’s straightforward gaze, and it’s terrifying. Sure, the evidence so far is stacking in a very distinct direction but… _what if he’s wrong?_ This is exactly the kind of scenario that shakes formerly-solid friendships down to their barren foundations, leaving warped perceptions and heart-wreckage strewn across the landscape.

But then they’re outside Iwaizumi’s door, and there’s no more time to think.

Tooru watches his hands—too steady, godsfuckingdamn him—unlock and open, one turning a flat palm up to gesture Tooru inside like a butler. This is mocking enough to rile him up, so he glares at Iwaizumi as he shoulders past into the apartment. Iwa’s eyes are full of laughter again, which isn’t exactly a confidence booster, but no matter; the emotional insecurity is revving Tooru’s feistiness back up—for fuck’s sake, he didn’t fly all this fucking way just to get a surprise dick piercing (metaphorically) dangled in front of his nose by the asshole he happens to have been in love with for years. It’s Chekhov’s motherfucking gun, and Tooru demands a fair shot. So he rounds on Iwaizumi and…

Iwaizumi has his back up against the closed door, belt unbuckled, dangling ends framing his hands as he unbuttons, unzips, parts the denim sea and… _voilà._

 **_Ooh_ ** _la la._

“Fuck,” Tooru whispers.

This response is triggered by a few separate things.

Firstly: Tooru’s always known Iwaizumi to go commando whenever the urge strikes him.

It turns out today is one of those magical days.

Secondly: Tooru’s been aware for many years that Iwaizumi’s dick is bigger than his.

He made his peace with it long ago—he’s a grower not a show-er, and ultimately, it’s not size that matters but how you make your hips sway, and Tooru’s had _adequate_ confirmation that his hips sway just the right way to make some sweet music for a while so everybody dances and goes home happy—besides which, he’d only ever seen Iwa flaccid before, so there was a possibility their sizes evened out when erect.

But now, seeing him hard for the first time…

“ _Fuck,_ ” Tooru breathes, and if there’s the tiniest whine buried in it, it’s no one’s business but theirs.

The piercing is a stunner, but this is almost entirely thanks to the gorgeous specimen in which it's mounted, doubling the amount of saliva collecting in Tooru’s mouth— _holy shit, Iwa’s a fucking Playgirl pin-up._

Iwaizumi silently lets Tooru take in the newest view Cali has to offer. He toes off his sneakers and peels off his socks while Tooru’s jaw completes its inevitable descent to the floor, eyes bouncing along with the slow bob of the award-worthy erection in front of him as Iwaizumi pushes his waistband down over his thighs and kicks free of his pants.

Then he strolls over to the couch. Tooru’s eyes follow the way that hefty cock sways, too distracted even to check out Iwa’s extremely fine ass—though, let’s be real, he’s checked that out a million times before, and he’s got another body part to commit to memory right now, _priorities_ —

Iwaizumi sets himself in middle of the cushions, not the most comfortable spot—it’s a love seat, so he’s voluntarily putting his crack in the crack—but the ideal spot for maximum man-spreading. And spread he does, every inch the king on his modestly-priced throne, slanting hot eyes Tooru’s way.

“Want a closer look?”

Tooru’s already drifting over (drifting because he isn’t 100% sure his feet are even on the ground anymore); he floats down onto the cushion partially-occupied by Iwa’s left thigh, a horny little dandelion seed desperate for some solid ground to plant in.

And Iwa’s thigh is extremely solid, strong beneath his fingers. Tooru’s brain is full of cock already, so he neglects to okay this very un-platonic touching with Iwaizumi, but Iwa doesn’t say anything or shove his hand away. Instead, he spreads a little more, tilting his pelvis up the slightest bit more to give a proper presentation of his pierced hard-on, all for Tooru’s viewing pleasure.

And oh, what a pleasure. Iwaizumi’s cock is slightly curved and gorgeously thick, foreskin coming just far up enough to loosely frame the silver bead crowning his slit. The other end of the barbell presents itself as a teasingly-hidden bump along the underside of his shaft, and Tooru stares avidly as Iwa slowly wraps a hand around his length, sliding his sheath down to reveal the other silver treasure nestled under his cock-head.

Iwaizumi pumps himself under Tooru’s avid gaze, working his cock unhurriedly until a dollop of precum dew swells up around the top of the barbell, dripping slick down to coat the other bead.

Tooru swallows hard. His own dick is straining at his zipper so fiercely he’s surprised his pants haven’t ripped. He stutters breath, stutters words, “Iwa-ch-chan—“

Iwaizumi’s tone smolders in his ear. “Yeah?”

“I, I—" The words _want to suck your fucking cock, please_ don’t seem that difficult in concept, but in practice, they are next to impossible. Deliriously hot feelings meld with the spiking tension, forming a peanut-butter consistency in Tooru’s throat; his mouth works soundlessly as he tries to force his words through the horny mire.

But Iwaizumi reads him— _like always_ —pulls him through— _like always_ —grabbing Tooru’s chin in his hand, forcing him to meet the green fire in his eyes head-on. “ _Yes._ ”

Tooru moans—he’s been wanting for _so long_ —melts off the couch to puddle at Iwa’s feet, slides in between Iwa’s legs, slides his hands up Iwa’s iron thighs, slides his tongue up that hot cock from thick base to moisture-kissed tip—tastes Iwa’s heat and salt and metal oh _fuck_ —and Iwaizumi’s head drops back with a hiss. Tooru completes his first pass and hovers for a blissed-out second, processing the flavor coating his tongue until Iwa flexes his hips up, chasing Tooru’s mouth, gazing at him with eyes half-lidded and calescent. Tooru gazes back, his own cock throbbing in time with Iwa’s quickening breathing as he drops back down for another drag.

Iwaizumi’s fingers slip into his hair—not grabbing, just holding him like he needs to confirm that Tooru’s really there, lapping up the sides of his cock like it’s a melting ice cream cone—and Tooru fizzes inside, presses the flat of his tongue firmly along the underside so it pulls up over the silver bead protruding from the middle of it. Iwaizumi groans low in his throat, and Tooru wants to touch himself so _fucking badly_ , but he wants to focus on the task at hand—and mouth—even more. There’s a whole range of delicious sounds to hear yet.

He grips the base of Iwa’s cock, glides a snug embrace of lips and tongue up from the bottom of his shaft to encourage more of that joyful noise, seals his lips over the sensitive spot under the head and sweeps his tongue around the barbell in small circles, pushing it against the edges of the sensitive tunnel it lives in. This makes Iwaizumi’s hips jerk violently, yanking a ragged “ _fuck_ ,” out of his panting mouth.

Tooru angles Iwaizumi’s dick into his mouth and sucks in earnest, vacuum-sealing his lips around the head as he flicks the bead at the tip with his tongue. Iwa’s hips jerk again, a rough whimper straining from his throat, prompting Tooru to purse his lips up around that extra-sensitive tip, delicately sucking the barbell up to play with it again, keeping the jewelry in motion and massaging his lips up and down the head of Iwa’s cock until he gives Tooru the profanity-laden porno moan he’s been working towards.

Tooru takes him deeper, giving the piercing a breather and sucking around as much of that thick length as he can comfortably get in his mouth. The hand not gripping Iwa’s cock sneaks down to palm his balls for a moment, gently pulling his sack in tandem with the suction, before it sneaks off the couch entirely so Tooru can fumble with his own zipper—the weight of Iwa on his tongue is too fucking erotic with that damn piercing pressing a gully up the middle with every pass he makes, Tooru’s cock fucking _hurts_ —

Completely attuned to Tooru’s everything in every scenario, Iwa snags his attention with a fingertip massage over his scalp that radiates tingles down his spine—tingles that rebound right off Tooru’s pelvic floor and zing up his weeping dick, mercy _please—_ voice rough and breathless as he says, “Why don’t you unzip, stay for a while.”

Tooru hums affirmatively, segues his foolish nodding into some deeper bobs of his mouth around Iwaizumi while he puts both hands to task freeing himself from the tyranny of zip-front pants, lifting up on his knees enough to keep mouth contact while he shoves his bottom layers down to his thighs. He settles back down with one hand around his cock, the other returning to steady Iwa’s hot length in his greedy mouth. He swallows down around him, pushing himself to take just a little more, a little more, _more—_ gagging a bit, but he’s a big boy, he can deal, he’s gagging on a fucking _dream_ , just regroup, relax, go again, ooh _fuck, Iwa-chan_ —

His one-track concentration is interrupted by a foot wedging itself under the hand he’s furiously tugging on himself with, and he glances up at Iwa’s face to see the corners of his mouth curl upward as he nudges Tooru’s hand away from his needy cock. Tooru’s eyebrows crinkle in disgruntlement, then sail off into the lower stratosphere of his hairline when he realizes Iwa’s foot is still on his dick, stroking lightly up the underside with his toes. He presses the ball of his foot into Tooru’s dick, sandwiching it against his trembling abs as he massages up and down the length of it with broad, hypnotizing circles.

Tooru moans and replaces both his hands on Iwa’s thighs, desperate for their grounding influence as Iwa works him harder, giving special attention to the head of his cock, rolling it around and smearing precum into Tooru’s t-shirt. Tooru tries to focus on what his mouth is supposed to be doing, but Iwaizumi has remarkably dextrous feet—something else Tooru never knew, what the _fuck_ —and Tooru finds his hips lifting without his express permission, lured aloft to jerk in tune with the pied piper melody this mystery man—codename: Iwa-chan—is executing with his astonishing foot-job talent in this rare instance of _“big feet, big dick”_ being not only true, but also part of the same package.

Backed by 100 million watts of desire, Tooru sucks as hard as he can, slopping his tongue and sluttish moans all over Iwaizumi’s gently flexing cock—the only payback he can deal out right now while he tries in vain not to dissolve into an absolute mess on the rug—but Iwa presses harder, hot eyes scanning every tiny agonized shift of Tooru’s expression as he rubs his callouses sensually over Tooru’s most sensitive places, coaxing Tooru to hump against his foot for all he’s worth—he’s cum over thoughts of Iwa so many times, _as if_ he could fucking hold back now that he's _directly_ _involved_ —

He has to pull back so he can breathe—fuck—squeezing his fist up and down Iwa’s slick cock while he gasps into the crease of Iwa’s thigh— _fuck_ —moaning louder with every breath shuddering from his seizing lungs— ** _fuck_** _—_ until he’s squirting up his own front and crying his harrowing pleasure into Iwaizumi’s feverishly hot skin. Iwa rubs him until his wordless animal noise hits neighbor-alert volume, then releases Tooru from the happy torture, wiping the top and bottom of his foot against the side of Tooru’s knee, one of the remaining dry spots on his bespattered clothes.

Tooru slots his wanton mouth against the side of Iwa’s cock, drags his tongue up the side and sinks his mouth over it again with a whiny groan; he keeps pace with his arrhythmic breathing until his heart slows enough for him to feel good about restricting his air supply a different way. To this end, he returns to his worshipful downward progression, easing Iwa against the back of his throat slowly, mentally bargaining with his gag reflex. He taps into the latent potential of the post-orgasmic hormones flooding his system, slips his shaky hands around the backs of Iwaizumi’s knees as he leans into that energy drain throat-first, entrancing himself with overflowing desire as he pushes himself further down on the beautiful cock in his mouth.

Iwaizumi’s fingertips press into Tooru’s scalp in more urgent patterns. He murmurs, “ _Fuck_ , baby, that’s it, swallow me.”

Tooru inhales, exhales… and does, giving himself over to the process and pushing his nose into Iwaizumi’s pubic hair with a drawn-out hum. His eyelids flutter closed at the sensation of Iwaizumi’s cock flexing in his throat’s tight embrace, and he’s conscious of Iwa’s thighs spreading more, Iwa’s fingers shifting to cradle the back of his head, Iwa’s grunt as he slowly, shallowly starts to pump his dick in and out of Tooru’s throat until a gag-cough forces Tooru out of his grasp.

He hacks a few times, swallows a mouthful of spit, then breathlessly leans close again, meeting Iwaizumi’s apologetic gaze with a watery little smile. “I’m good.”

The apology lingers in Iwaizumi’s eyes, and he smoothes his fingers in soothing circles through Tooru’s hair. “You don’t have to try so hard, dumbass.”

Tooru’s features snarl into a scowl. He’s fully aware Iwaizumi means well, and a large portion of him feels very gooey about the sweetness peeking out from under those hard edges his heart’s so soft on.

The rest of him, however, wants to blow Iwa-chan’s fucking mind—if he thinks he gets to be Mr. Super Cool Big Dick Iwaizumi to the end, he’s got another fuckin’ think coming if Oikawa Tooru has anything to say about it.

So he curls his lip and mumbles, “Try? There is no try. It’s do or do not, bitch.”

Then he ducks forward to capture the head of Iwa’s cock in his mouth, sucking viciously around it, flicking the little barbell back and forth ruthlessly until he leaches away the last drop of Iwaizumi’s patience—a skill Tooru’s been cultivating for many years, but never quite to the degree of success he achieves in this moment.

Iwaizumi grates out a strangled, “Oh, fuck _you,_ " before he braces against the back of the couch, grabs the sides of Tooru’s face, and starts fucking his mouth hard. His dick kisses the back of Tooru’s throat every few thrusts, but asshole stubbornness must be adequate for tamping down the gag reflex issue, because it’s suddenly almost too easy to fall under the spell of that barbell dragging fiercely up the middle of his tongue, to let the mesmerizing slide of Iwaizumi’s thickness pull him forward, opening as wide as he can until that fat cock is stuffed in his throat again. Iwaizumi gasps a quick inhale as the tighter wetness closes around him, then seals his hands around the back of Tooru’s head and continues the sharp thrusts of his hips, reciting a litany of filth dirty enough to make a whole damn boatload of sailors blush.

It’s a good thing Iwaizumi’s got a solid grip on him, because Tooru’s liable to float up to the ceiling otherwise. He’s not in a very cognitive place at the moment, and it’s a little scary, hanging there between the distant awareness of his six-foot-tall, decently-heavy reality, yet feeling so small between Iwa’s hands. He grounds himself in the tiny strokes of Iwaizumi’s thumb along his scalp—

_nine digits for debauchery_

_save the tenth for tenderness_

—because it resonates with something Tooru’s been pretty sure of forever, but never explicitly confirmed—

_Iwa-chan_ **_loves_** _him_.

It has yet to be confirmed whether it’s _exactly_ the same kind of love Tooru has burning in his heart, but it seems equivalently deep, at least—steady touch promising over and over that, no matter how many trash-related nicknames he calls him, Iwaizumi will never ever throw Tooru away.

Not even if what they’re doing right now makes things weird for a while, because let’s be real, face-fucking your best friend is a bit of an off-brand bonding exercise and—

“F _-uck, Tooru_.”

The irresistibly rich shift in that ever-familiar low tone pings Tooru’s sagging consciousness, and he opens his eyes to see a truly beautiful sight: Iwaizumi Hajime, burnished red high across his cheeks, jaw slack and green eyes smothered by his dilated pupils as he undulates into Tooru’s mouth, panting, “Just, _hah_ , just like that, baby… oh _fuck,_ I’m gonna cum—fuck— _fuck—Too—_ ** _ru_** _—_ ” before he pulls Tooru’s lips back down to the base of his cock, hips pulsing gently as he spills down his throat.

Tooru isn’t conscious of his hands clamping like vises around the backs of Iwa’s sturdy thighs until he’s released, coughing into the space between them, choking inelegantly on the extra wet. But there’s comfort in compressing warm flesh in your palm, and Tooru heaves wetly-ragged breath as he squeezes repetitively, expanding his focus to include the sweat lightly coating Iwa’s skin under his cheek, the tattered panting beating the air somewhere above his head, the stroke of that thumb that gradually magnifies until all of Iwa’s fingers are petting haphazard trails through his hair.

“You okay?” Iwaizumi asks quietly. “I got kind of carried away there.”

Tooru rubs a nod against his thigh—considers pressing a kiss there, but thinks better of it—and very shakily pushes himself up off Iwaizumi’s lap. Iwa’s hands don’t leave his hair, though one does slide around to cup Tooru’s cheek for a moment as they catch gazes.

Tooru’s breathing stutters again, because Iwaizumi’s attractive power is in full effect—the flush in his cheeks has mellowed, which only serves to accentuate the stunning green in those damned stunning eyes—and he’s still _touching_ him and _looking at him_ and gods _fucking_ damn it, that’s not playing fair _at all_ , particularly since insecurity is tying Tooru’s heartstrings in horrible knots now that they’re solidly in the liminal aftermath of friend sex.

He doesn’t really feel like he has a choice in his next action, because whichever path is the way forward, being dumped onto the less favorable, platonic side of things would still be far preferable to vibrating with _what-if_ here at the fork.

So Tooru rises up on his knees and reaches—and the wave of relief smacks brash across his face when Iwa immediately leans in, pressing his lips full-contact against Tooru’s with the pliant urgency of a person whose own small doubts were just assuaged. Their mouths melt together, then their tongues, and then Iwaizumi’s gathering Tooru up off the floor and into his lap in a jumble of limbs and drying cum-splatter, cupping his jaw as their tongues laze over each other.

It makes for a pretty spectacular first kiss; highly untraditional approach, but tradition’s never been much of a catalyst for growth, so fuck it. Tooru allows himself to relax in the security of strong arms and savor the commanding way Iwaizumi’s mouth moves against his. He engages his tired tongue so Iwa doesn’t get too cocky about who’s really in control of this make-out situation—(it’s 100% Iwaizumi, but just because they might be equally in love here doesn’t mean Tooru’s ever going to stop pulling at the bit)—carefully ignoring the jet lag fog starting to creep up behind his eyeballs.

Iwa reads every signal, even the ones Tooru doesn’t mean to transmit, and gentles his mouth action until Tooru tires of the chastity, pressing his forehead to Iwaizumi’s with a dull glare.

“Bored already?” he snipes, but it’s weak; his energy’s hovering around 14% at best. Sex is a real drain on the system, no matter what combination of events encompasses it.

But he’s sniping at the King of Cool, so of course Iwaizumi simply presses their lips back together for a moment, then pulls back to say, “Not on your life.”

He pulls Tooru’s shirt up over his head more gently than Tooru would have done for him, then stands them both up so he can peel Tooru’s pants and underwear off.

Tooru stands there, energy spiking again as sudden embarrassment heats him—all their shared nudity in baths and locker rooms means nothing, now that intentions around the nudity have shifted on both sides—but he restrains himself from shrinking in any way as he watches Iwaizumi drop his dirty clothes atop the jeans crumpled by the door. Iwaizumi strips off his shirt to add to the pile, which pulls Tooru’s focus to the full expanse of tanned skin across the strong shoulders, that strong back, the legitimately _perfect_ ass he’s admired many times over—Tooru swallows roughly. Certain parts of him are getting less tired by the minute, particularly when Iwaizumi turns around again and he gets a view of how Iwa’s piercing sits when he’s flaccid and truly, across the fucking board… it does look _fantastic_ on him.

Iwaizumi’s checking Tooru out too, gaze catching on the part of his anatomy currently reawakening with a vengeance, and when their eyes meet again, Iwa’s have an according heat mounting within them. He shows Tooru his teeth in a viciously sensual grin.

“The couch is pretty small, right?”

“Huh?” This unsexy segue gives Tooru whiplash. He glances at said couch, which is still definitely a two-seater and definitely too small for him to stretch out on. It’s doubtful that Iwa’s really looking for a confirmation of the extremely obvious, but Tooru hands it over anyway. “Um, yeah?”

“No way you can sleep there,” Iwa says as he captures Tooru’s gaze again. “Floor’s not all that comfortable, either.”

He flicks the lights off, streetlight glow from outside bending more predatory shadows around his smile as he stalks closer.

“Uh-huh,” Tooru manages; it’s tricky, desire’s back to strangling him again.

“Let’s just share the bed,” Iwaizumi murmurs, fingers caressing trails into Tooru’s hair as he presses their nakedness together, reconnects their lips, and walks Tooru backward until they hit the mattress.

Once they get a bit more snugly-situated under the covers, a thought sparks.

Tooru separates their frantic mouths, almost regretting the tiniest loss of contact as Iwaizumi’s eyes drag down to stare hungrily at his lips while he licks his own, but Tooru has an annoyance quota to fill, so he whispers, “You gonna add Sexykawa to your repertoire now?”

Iwaizumi’s mouth curls up and he kisses Tooru sweetly before murmuring, “Fuck no, your head’s big enough.”

Any ensuing protest is lost to the hot joining of tongues and long-steeped love pouring itself out the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> the Argentine Spanish Tooru memorized = _{hey asshole! come on, what are you doing, run after the ball and stop fuckin’ around please}_
> 
> and [an example](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9uZWYcaLQw?t=11m58s) of the kind of cumbia he would've been hearing en muchas fiestas argentinas.
> 
> and hopefully I described it well enough, but just in case: Iwa’s piercing is a classic Prince Albert  
> [in through the urethra, out below the glans]
> 
> [dzesi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294427) = best beta; if you now find yourself in desperate need of some primo atsuhina kink (now or later ~~or never?~~ you do you), that link will take you right to the delightful (and fantastically-hot) month-long Sex Olympics piece she collab-wrote with Erisabesu for kinktober.
> 
> Comments intimately cherished  
> If you feel inclined to drop some heavier love on me [<3<3<3](https://ko-fi.com/peril)


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